Friday, June 6, 2014

Holding On, Letting Go

Holding on.

Sometime around early January a few inches of malleable snow
fell. It was perfect snowman-making snow, or better yet, snowball-making snow. While it was still
fresh I brushed off the backyard woodpile and replenished the wood rack inside
the garage. In the winter I keep a stock of dry split wood there for stormy
days when going outside to fetch fuel for the fireplace is too bitter a task.
Before heading into the house, as my dog Charlotte was still sniffing about, I
chugged across a pristine swath of snow to make a large heart shape. It wasn't perfect. From my upstairs window it looked balloon-ish, as if squeezed from a
bubble pipe.

Snow Heart

A few days later there was another snowfall, a few more
inches, and, in another fit of spontaneous artistry, I trudged along the
heart-shaped path again. The wind blew and temperatures sank in the coming
days, pulling the last of the leaves off of the beech trees in our area. These
are always the most tenacious of our local trees, holding onto their
coffee-tinted leaves long after all other trees are bare. The wind blew beech leaves
into the heart shaped trough and, with a gentle contrast, the heart continued
on, visible across the white field during gray days and moonlit nights.

Valentine’s Day arrived and my backyard theme lived on. A
few days afterward we were inundated with successive snowfalls. We concentrated
on keeping a small path clear between backdoor and driveway. Our lives shrunk
as the severity of the season closed in on us, no more whimsical snow designs
or snowmen or snowball fights. We spent a few weeks struggling with the basic business
of life. The snow heart disappeared under a frozen mantle. Ice encrusted our
roof and filled the pathways.

Charlotte

By mid-March the strong sun of spring began working on the
layers of snow. A determined crowd of daffodils emerged under my dryer vent,
satisfying and hopefully green. Bustling about upstairs one day, gathering up a
basket of laundry, I glanced out from behind our insulated curtains. The snow
heart returned, leafy outline intact, materializing from the thick cloak of
winter.

Holding on.

March 2014

Charlotte is a very old dog. I adopted her as a puppy. There
was a notice in the paper about a young dog thrown from a car at the train
station, a beagle.

A new resident in a strange town, a single mom with one
child in college and the other starting in a new high school, I thought a dog
for my younger son would be just right: a furry friend to ward off the
loneliness of being the new kid at school and keep him company while he was home
alone during my long commute. We had beagle experience. We knew beagles. We
could do this. Only, she wasn't a beagle. When I went to interview and meet her,
I knew she was something else. Her perfectly-lined eyes and fine bones spoke Border
collie. Only her color patches of black and caramel brown on a white background
looked beagle-ish. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Her ears were lovely and
soft.

I took her home.

That was over fourteen years ago. She saw Trevor through
high school and college and grad school. She loves us and we love her. She is a
dirt road dog. We thought Charlotte would become Charley, but she is ever the
girl; Charlotte she would stay. Nothing makes her happier than a hike in the
woods with her people. Throughout the many roads and trails in our town she
romped, circling ahead of us, coming back to see if we were okay, stopping to
investigate smells and chase chipmunks, but never letting us out of her sight. She
sported a merry, prancing walk.

Aside from occasional visits to a canine friend
of hers down the road she never roamed, preferring to keep watch on our yard
and driveway from a sunny vantage point at a corner of the house. When I
remarried she celebrated as my bridesmaid, encircling and herding our small
wedding party into the wide hay field we chose for our ceremony.

Bride and Bridesmaid

Now she is old, in her dotage. This winter was hard on her,
the slippery paths and bitter wind. She has arthritis and weak back legs. You
can feel delicate hipbones through the fur on her rump. Her eyes are fuzzy and
she no longer alerts when you call her name. She groans modestly and hauls herself
carefully up to standing. She walks stiffly, carefully. We make her poached
chicken and broth and cheer her up the one step from our deck into the kitchen.
We give her dog treats at the slightest hint she might be interested. We carry
her down the stairs and, lately, up them as well. Now she spends her days on
the soft bed we’ve placed near the baseboard heater. I worry every day I keep
her here selfishly. I don’t want to let her go. I hold on.

Postscript: June 3, 2014

Letting go.

Charlotte fell on the kitchen floor on Memorial Day and
couldn’t get herself up. She gave us the look. After months of carrying her up
and down stairs, of not being able to sit down or wag her tail, it was her time.

She was the best dog I ever had – sweet, gentle, patient,
loving, smart, happy, merry. Her schedule described my life for the last year
or so, especially since last August when she became crippled with aging hips
and legs. It was a brutal winter for her but she never showed signs of
crankiness or resentment. Other dogs would get that low growl. They would look
up at you with a warning in their eyes. Not Charlotte. She was, as we whispered
to her when she drew her last breath, a very good girl.

I remind myself of the lessons she taught me: to take every
opportunity for a walk or a hike, to always be curious, to be patient, to nap
in the sun when you can, to love your people unconditionally, and to live fully
in the moment – the moment you are in right now.

This in heart wrenching for me. My dog of 15 years died a year and a half ago. So did my two cats, all within one year of each other. They were old and sick. That is the deal we make when we get them. That they are only "borrowed". We must give the back eventually. I never thought about it when they were young and healthy. I shuttered to even let it cross my mind. My animals, especially my dog, Silkie, brought me comfort, unconditional love, understanding, and sheer joy that I never had before. They were my buddies, my pals. I was there mom. I am married, but we never had kids, These were my kids. Silkie, Sweet Pea, and Miss Kitty. When I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, they helped me by just being there with me. I wanted them around, even when I was in a bad mood, or not feeling well. Pets are like warm blankets. Since there loss, I have felt "cold", no more warm blankets. All I have is memories, and three boxes with ashes. It took me a long time to even accept that they were gone. The house felt lonely, and still does. I love my husband very much, but he is not a pet. No human can replace what pets do for us, emotionally. My husband does not want any pets right now, and I have to respect that. We have to both be in it together. For now, I will be sad, take my tranquilizers to take the edge off, and appreciate the good days. We can learn from pets, they live one day at a time. That is what I am trying to do.

Wow that shure brought out the tears. So masterly written.I met Charlotte the day after she arrived st her forever home. Who could ever forget the look of joy on Trevor's face. The soft touch of his gentle hand, assuring Charlotte that she was now safe and surrounded by all the love she could absorb. Well, love from everyone, sans Edison. I so fondly remember thoser regular hikes wih Trev, Charlotte and Mona off-leash while Ed being confined to restrict him from obeying his nose. Though I was kept abreast of Charlotte's fading health and knowingt he effects it would have on one young man's heart, I was truly heartbroken and felt so helpless at its effects Now, one week ago, I lost my best buddy. The best four legged child I've ever had. We had both been thru so much together. We knew each othersthoughts. Seeing him out in the yard, his last breath taken, blew me away. But my Rusty died at home, under his own terms, taking his last sniff. In my nearly sixty years, I've had many dogs. Each one has touched my heart and soul so profoundly. I am a much better and richer man becauseof it. Thank you Trudy. Your story touched my heart.